ANGEL
by Splinter Cell
Summary: Harry Potter used to dream of an angel with blonde hair and grey eyes who'd make all the pain go away. But Lucius Malfoy is no angel and Harry is a very confused child. PostOoTP.


ANGEL  
  
Perhaps it was the movement of the train, or the steady beat of the rain against the windows, or the blurring landscape rushing past his eyes. Perhaps it was the laughter and happy chatter so close and yet out of reach. Perhaps it had been the anguish in Malfoy's eyes, so quickly masked and so cleverly hidden when he'd baited him about his father. Perhaps it had been all of this and none of it but the memories, unwelcome and unbidden as they were would not now leave him alone.  
  
It had been.easy, yes, easy to push them to the back of his mind and let them rot there. When he'd had things to do; clothes to be folded, trunks to be packed, farewells to be said, it had been easy to ignore the little sing- song voice - that for some reason had taken on the exact manner of Umbridge's - told him: 'It's all your fault little boy. Too young, too naïve, too trusting, too confident. Look what happened little hero. You led your friends into unimaginable danger and Sirius died rescuing you. It's simple good fortune that no-one else died.'  
  
Easy. And when he'd run out of things to do, when he'd done as much of his homework as he could stomach, when he'd emptied his trunk and repacked it for the hundredth time, when he'd helped Ron collect what the Twins had left, when the lights had gone out and he was lying in bed-  
  
The demons come back.  
  
Demons in black cloaks and white masks. And one, the worst.  
  
'Very good, Potter. Now turn around, nice and slowly, and give that to me.'  
  
Voldemort is mad; clinically insane, no doubt. Bellatrix Lestrange with her hollowed face and corroded beauty is also what Harry might call three bricks short of a wall. But Lucius Malfoy. . .  
  
Lucius Malfoy inspires in Harry something close to terror.  
  
Soft grey eyes, white-blond hair and even paler skin; the way Harry always envisaged the angels he dreamed of as a child. Angels that would swoop down and carry him away. From the Dursleys and the abuse and the hunger and fear and the painpainpainpain. . . and later, from the horrifying realisation that he had killed a man, Quirrel, and the basilisk and a malevolent memory and Cedric's dead body in the graveyard filled with ringing laughter.  
  
When he first saw him, Harry's young heart leapt in his breast. He felt drawn to the man, to the aura of power that surrounded him. Safety. . .  
  
Safety - the awe and respect others held him in  
  
Safety - the reassuring, towering bulk of the man  
  
Safety. . .  
  
And then he turned, and Harry's heart shuddered and split and he felt as though he couldn't breathe, couldn't move. He thought that he might be dying.  
  
His angel was a devil, after all.  
  
Grey eyes were glittering and hard with a pinpoint pupil and bore into him with a relentless ruthlessness, stripping away and casting aside everything Harry had built up around himself and ripping straight to the core. In those few moments, their eyes locked fast, Harry felt as though he were being dissected, his innermost secrets being laid bare for the man in front of him to see. . .and smirk at.  
  
Angel? His eyes had said. Angel? No, child. Not an angel, never an angel. Angels don't exist.  
  
Then he had spoken, and his voice had cut into the regrouping remnants of Harry's soul and shredded it all again. It had been soft, but sneering. Soft, but malevolent and so cut glass cultured it transported Harry back to the 4 Privet Drive and his Cinderella existence in the cupboard under the stairs. Scum, a mere second-class specimen of the human race unfit to be touched lest he contaminate pure blood.  
  
But he didn't show that he was afraid, or that he felt broken inside. He stood up to the man, the devil with his angel's face and all the while, inside, he was crying to reach out to touch that perfect face and fall into that saving embrace. Later, he laughed along with the rest of them, sneered along with the rest of them and poured his contempt upon all aristocratic Pureblood wizards. As time went on, that too became easier and easier. Proud; bigoted; cruel; manipulative; heartless. . .the list went on and on. His angel touched a girl and corrupted her innocence, his angel came, with a smile and sneer and pretty black bow and almost brought the school to ruin. His angel. . .  
  
Harry had felt like crying. It was OK during the day. In the cold, hard light of day he could look at things logically, rationally and see for himself exactly who Lucius Malfoy was. But at night. . .  
  
At night, he used to sit up, and look out of the window. The high jagged peaks of the mountains and the menacing shadow of the forest a darker stain against the black fabric of the night. The night so cold, raising goose pimples on his skin and his every whisper carrying a thousand miles. Sometimes it was too much for him, sometimes everything was too strange. Sometimes he would cry to go home again, home to the fear and servitude he endured under the tyranny of the Dursleys, because it was familiar and normal and there was no powerful wizard who'd killed his parents just to get to him. There was no guilt, at the Dursleys.  
  
And at those times, few and far between though they were, his angel would appear. Floating just outside the window or sitting on the bed beside him, grey-eyed and silver-haired and telling him that everything was quite all right' or sometimes, saying nothing at all.  
  
At night, it was possible for Harry to dream that maybe, the father might not be like the son.  
  
Years passed in the blink of an eye. And with each passing year, Harry could believe in his angel less and less. The being that held him during his nightmares had dark hair and darker eyes, eyes haunted by something unimaginable.  
  
Harry thought that he was strong. That the trials and tribulations had left him too hardened to believe in fairytales and make-believe. But his fallen angel stood there before him, the darkness so becoming him and Harry had felt the long-forgotten surge within his breast.  
  
Safety.  
  
Succour.  
  
Peace.  
  
He'd wanted to, Merlin forgive him, he'd wanted to. Desperately. Hand them the bauble, he didn't care about it. He was just suddenly so tired. He'd been tricked, his weakness used against himself. He'd led his friends into danger they might not come out of. And his angel was there! So close!  
  
[hand me the prophecy and find rest with me place your hands in mine and I'll take you away from this, my love]  
  
And Harry had wanted to. The longing that had sprung up inside him had been so strong. It terrified him. But the worst, the worst. . .  
  
He cannot think about the worst. About the stirring in his abdomen when the devil had had him pinned to the ground. Sick, he knows it. But beneath the fear and the hate, Harry had wanted him to shift, just a little bit, and lean a little closer, move his mouth a little to the left and claim his lips in a fiery kiss.  
  
In his dreams, his angel doesn't stop there. . .  
  
Sirius died.  
  
Sometimes Harry doesn't know who killed Sirius. He can't remember. The Death Eaters blur into one. Bellatrix or Lucius, it doesn't matter to him anymore.  
  
He can't think straight. Light - Dark; Good - Evil; Life - Death; Hatred - Passion; Angel - Devil.  
  
Sirius is dead.  
  
His angel sits rotting in Azkaban.  
  
At fifteen, Harry Potter is cracking, held together by the flimsiest of silken threads and Lucius Malfoy is one that Harry fears most. 


End file.
